


never quite alone

by basementhero



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - A Christmas Carol Fusion, M/M, Not Really Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-04
Updated: 2016-01-04
Packaged: 2018-05-11 18:31:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5637376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/basementhero/pseuds/basementhero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Harry is visited by Christmas spirits determined to make him realize the error of his ways</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. to begin with

**Author's Note:**

> cross-posted from my tumblr holiday song challenge, the songs being "When Love is Gone" and "When Love is Found/It Feels Like Christmas" from The Muppet Christmas Carol

“What the fuck, Harry?” Louis yells angrily.

Harry doesn’t flinch at the exclamation he gets as soon as he answers his phone. He knew as soon as he saw Louis’ name pop up that he was going to get yelled at, so he hadn’t even lifted the phone all the way to his ear as a precautionary measure for his eardrum.

“What do you want me to tell you, Lou, I don’t–”

“Don’t _Lou_ me! What the fuck are you doing in California?”

“Well, right now I’m peeling a banana,” Harry answers truthfully.

“You know damn well that’s not what I meant.” Harry can picture steam rising from Louis’ ears as the older man fumes about him being purposefully obtuse.

“I’ve decided to spend the holiday here,” Harry explains as he places his banana into the blender and reaches for the strawberries he’d bought at a little farmers’ market the day before. “My mum, Robin, and Gemma are going to fly in for New Year’s. They could use some sunshine.”

“I’m going to come over there myself and kick your arse. You’re skipping my fucking birthday party, the one _you_ suggested two months ago? Ring a bell?”

“Your family will be there,” Harry answers emotionlessly, mentally debating with himself about the ratio of banana to strawberry he wanted for his smoothie. “And your friends from home. That’s what this “hiatus”,” Harry makes sure the quotes are evident in his tone, “is for, isn’t it?”

“You and the lads were supposed to be here, too,” Louis reminds him. “Niall’s going to have to stay sober so he can make his absurdly early flight home the next morning, but he’ll still be here. You’re the only one being a dick.”

Harry feels his defenses raising and shattering the careful nonchalance he’d been trying to maintain.

“You and Niall can spend the night talking about how much of a dick I am.” He knows he sounds bitter and sighs. “Sorry, Lou, I’ve already made plans. I’m not coming.” Harry pulls his phone away, hanging up while turning on the blender with his other hand.

Louis calls back seven times in the time it takes for Harry to make his smoothie, seven times that go pointedly unanswered. Harry supposes that he could have given more advance notice about his nonattendance, perhaps mentioned that he wasn’t going to go to the party earlier than the day before its date, and even then not personally telling Louis about it. He’d taken a photo with a fan in downtown LA the night before, leaving Louis and the others to deduce his location and the unlikelihood of it changing within twenty-four hours.

He had suggested that Louis throw a big birthday party, suggested it as a temporary farewell and a kickoff for their long-awaited break. Harry didn’t know exactly _when_ he decided he didn’t want to be a part of that goodbye, but it had definitely been an idea bouncing around in the back of his head for at least a week. They liked to insist they’d be back after a year or two off to spend time with family and relax, but Harry wasn’t stupid. As much as he loved the stage, _needed_ it like he needed to breathe, he knew that the others could go on without it…and if they really needed to come back, they could do it without him. They all had to grow up sometime, right? They couldn’t be in a boyband forever. Harry couldn’t make himself go to a party celebrating the end of the best thing that would probably ever happen to him. He’d flown in the opposite direction instead, taken refuge in his house in LA, where no one could get to him without a flight so inconvenient they’d never do it to come get him to make him attend something as stupid as a birthday party. His mum had been disappointed to not have him home for Christmas; she accepted his excuse that he wanted to find himself and maybe create some of his own traditions, as bullshit as the excuse actually was.

Harry picks up his afternoon smoothie, decides to leave his phone because he’s tired of seeing the voicemail notifications, and strides into his lounge.

The smoothie glass shatters upon impact with the floor, pink liquid splattering about. Harry doesn’t notice. He’s too busy staring at the figure perched on his couch.

Zayn is rigid on the sofa, his gaze fixed steadily on Harry. He’s got on a leather jacket and ripped jeans that Harry recognizes. His hair is dark, though, not at all the dyed style Harry has seen pictures of on the internet when he isn’t doing a good enough job of avoiding news on the other man.

“How did you get in?” Is the first of Harry’s many questions that manages to fully form enough to be spoken.

“I didn’t.”

“What does that mean?”

“I show up where I’m needed.”

There’s something a bit off about Zayn’s voice when he answers. His accent is wrong, his tone lower. If Harry had to describe the difference, the best he could do was call it a strange mix between his own voice and the other man’s, like a memory blended with his own running internal monologue.

“Needed? I don’t need you.” Harry doesn’t intend for it to come out so harshly, but he’s not prepared to deal with all the unresolved issues still left over from Zayn leaving.

“I wouldn’t be here if you didn’t.” The other man’s expression never seems to change, always neutral.

“You shouldn’t be here, Zayn.”

“I’m not Zayn.”

Harry needs to sit down. He feels a headache coming on, the result of confusion and frustration building up and together beating at his brain. He carefully steps out of the smoothie-and-glass mixture on the floor and sinks into the armchair nearest him.

“What do you mean you’re not Zayn?” He finally asks. “Of course you are.”

“I’m taking a familiar form from your memories,” “not”-Zayn explains in a monotone. “I am a spirit, sent to show you the path you are on.”

“I can get you to the hospital if something’s wrong. Did you hit your head?”

“Tonight, you will be visited by three spirits. Expect the first when the clock strikes one.”

Zayn stands up in one motion so fluid it cannot possibly be made by a real human being. Harry jumps forward and grabs at the man’s wrist. He half expects his grip to fall through, but he makes contact. Zayn looks at Harry like he’s waiting for him to speak, so Harry tries to gather his thoughts enough to say something.

“I don’t understand,” he pleads.

“You’re here, alone, for Christmas because you’re scared,” Zayn begins, for the first time with some emotion. Unfortunately for Harry, the emotion is pity. “You’re afraid of change but would rather it come swiftly on your own terms than at the hands of someone else. I take this form because that is a situation your memory recognizes in your former bandmate. He burned his bridges, Harry. I’m only here to warn you that three spirits will be coming to show you what happens if you keep trying to burn your own.”

“Am I dreaming?” He must be dreaming. There is no other explanation for this madness.

“Many revelations come to us in dreams.”

“Is that a yes?”

“I cannot tell you what is real and what isn’t.”

Zayn seems to fade away, leaving Harry’s hand clutching air.

***

Harry can’t sleep. He’d gone through the day in a sort of daze after his paranormal encounter. He’d debated on calling his mum, asking her what she thought and if maybe he should go see a psychiatrist, but ultimately decided against it because he didn’t know how to even begin explaining what had happened. A ghost(?) that looked like his ex-bandmate had shown up in his living room and warned him about some more ghosts coming? It sounded ridiculous. Nevertheless, as the clock ticked towards one in the morning, Harry can’t fall asleep. He can’t even keep his eyes closed.

“Good morning!” a high-pitched voice shouts in his ear.

Harry’s head snaps to the side to face the intruder, finding himself again face-to-face with a familiar figure.

“Gemma?” He says slowly, taking in the sight of his sister, who doesn’t look like she could be more than sixteen even though he knows that can’t be right.

“Hey baby brother,” she grins. “Ready to go?”

“Go?” He struggles to untangle himself from the sheets, having gotten his legs twisted in them after hours of tossing and turning. “Go where?”

“To look at Christmases past!”

“What?”

“I’m the Spirit of Christmas Past,” she says like he’s stupid for not knowing.

Harry blinks slowly. “I must be dreaming,” he mutters to himself.

“Dreaming or not, we’ve got a tight schedule. Let’s go!”

Gemma (or not-Gemma; she has the same sort of warped voice that the not-Zayn from before had had) holds out a hand which Harry instinctively takes. The room around them is enveloped by a white light, and then the light fades and leaves behind another room that Harry knows well.

“How did we get to Holmes Chapel without moving?” he asks without really meaning to. It’s definitely a dream, he’s decided, so he shouldn’t be questioning teleportation.

Before Gemma can answer, two small figures dash by–no, _through_ –Harry’s legs. He spins around to watch them come to a halt in front of the Christmas tree and the piles of presents. He can see his mother, looking young but tired, smiling down at the two with a Santa hat on her head. He and Gemma look at their younger selves, barely primary school age, tear into gifts with an intense joy that Harry now would only associate with the high of being onstage. His younger self’s grin is so wide it looks like it might split his face in half.

The figures seem to fast forward and blur for several seconds. Harry watches the gradual changes to the house over a period of years before it slows down again and stops. He glances over at Gemma, but she just points towards the two people they can see in a clear demand for Harry to pay attention.

He looks over and finds a vision of another younger version of himself, this time definitely fourteen, curled up in the corner of the sofa with a girl of the same age leaning on his shoulder. He remembers Charlotte: Harry hasn’t spoken to her in years, but how could he forget his first girlfriend? She was a pretty brunette with a big smile, his first date, first kiss, and first heartbreak. They got together in October and broke up in March, and she’d been allowed to spend two hours at his house on Christmas. Harry sees the cringe worthy way his teenaged self tries to subtly ask if they can make out, the look of disbelief on her face before she points out that his mother and sister are in the next room. She’s wearing the ugly locket he bought her; it’s a basic, gold heart with a terrible picture of him inside that he remembers printing at least ten pictures for because he couldn’t decide what the best angle was for his face.

“If the paparazzi could see this,” he muses aloud to Gemma, “they’d rethink my womanizer image.”

Gemma laughs and takes his hand again, tugging him so that they turn around before the white light comes again and replaces their childhood home with an airport lounge. He notices himself again first, this time almost eighteen, and then the shock of blond hair that can only belong to one person. He and Niall are sitting side by side in the uncomfortable seats, Niall waving his arms around, obviously in the middle of a story. Harry sees his younger self staring at Niall with unabashed adoration, crinkly-eyed and dimpled cheeks.

He recalls this memory easily, more than the other two he’s already revisited. It was during a short break in their first tour; Niall had needed to go to the airport for his flight and Harry had insisted on coming along so the Irish boy wouldn’t get bored or lonely waiting by himself.

“–and then Sean started pullin’ off his trousers–”

Harry’s mouth twitches upward because he remembers what his younger self is thinking, watching Niall move around wildly and laughing at jokes he hasn’t finished telling yet. His younger self is thinking that Louis or Liam or Zayn wouldn’t be able to appreciate what Niall is talking about, wouldn’t be able to follow the story because they didn’t go to Mullingar like Harry did and spend time with all of Niall’s family and friends. They didn’t know Niall like Harry did, a fact that the younger Harry had always treasured in secret. Twenty-one, almost twenty-two year old Harry can’t say for certain if that’s true anymore. He’s learned a lot about Niall over the years, but he’s also tried to distance himself sometimes because it hurts thinking about how much he wants to know and experience about the blond but never will. Niall loves everyone; Harry can’t always accept not being special, extraordinary in some way when it comes to Niall.

“You should’ve kissed him,” Gemma pipes up from beside him when Niall stands up to catch his flight and the younger Harry looks emotionally pained.

“What?”

“You obviously were in love with him.”

Harry doesn’t deny her observation. Maybe he was a little bit in love with Niall back then, maybe it was just an extension of how new and exciting everything was at the time. It was all so sudden and different, only natural to cling a bit too hard to someone as bubbly and sunshine-y as Niall.

The light comes in and changes the scenery again as soon as Niall walks out the door. Harry and Gemma stand in the bedroom of Harry’s old flat in London. It’s clearly 2012, and his younger self is on the phone while sitting on the edge of the bed. Harry knows it’s Taylor on the phone by the mix of emotions on his face.

“Yes, I’m driving home tonight,” the younger Harry says into the phone. His mouth is a mix of a smile and a frown. “I’ll tell her…Yes…”

Gemma looks at him with a gentle accusation in her eyes. Even not-Gemma is a master at making Harry feel judged, but in a caring way. “You don’t look too excited to be speaking with your girlfriend.”

“We break up in January,” he points out.

“If I could show you further back, outside of the holiday season, I would. It’d still be the same.”

“I liked Taylor,” Harry defends half-heartedly.

“I never said you didn’t like her.”

“No, you just said I didn’t like talking to her.”

“Did you?”

“No.”

The younger Harry pulls his phone back to look at the screen after his text alert, the same generic tone Harry still has years later, sounds over the call. Whatever Taylor must be saying to him is lost as Harry chooses to instead read the message. A smile instantly takes over his face.

Harry feels like he shouldn’t admit that he remembers exactly what the text was and who it was from. It feels damning, somehow.

Gemma, of course, doesn’t let him get away with pretending to be oblivious. “Who was it?”

“Niall,” Harry reluctantly replies. “Telling me something his dad said.”

“You preferred hearing about Bobby Horan to talking with your girlfriend,” Gemma restates plainly.

“I _did_ say we break up in January.”

The younger Harry has returned to his phone call, the smile fading fairly quickly while he hums noncommittally to whatever is being said.

“Why do you think that is?”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t you?”

Harry glares at Gemma, suddenly tired of this questioning. He’s worked very hard at not looking too deeply into this sort of thing, spent a lot of time deliberately not letting himself wonder about why none of his girlfriends have been half as enjoyable to him as any stupid text from Niall about footie or guitars or Theo.

“Stop.”

“Don’t get mad at me.” She rolls her eyes. “All of these things already happened, Harry. I didn’t do a thing.”

“Just take me home.”

Gemma shrugs and then they’re back in Harry’s house in LA, in his bedroom, and it’s still one AM. Harry looks over to apologize for snapping, but Gemma's gone.


	2. the sweetest dream

Harry is startled out of his pacing by the sound of rattling in his kitchen. He has been shuffling in the same small circle for nearly an hour, trying to convince himself that he doesn’t need to be institutionalized but also that nothing he saw was real. The rattling continues, sounding distinctly like bottles shifting in his fridge. Harry’s shoulders slump at the thought of a burglary adding to all of the shit he’s had to deal with in the past twenty-four hours.

With a small award statue in his hand, Harry slips through the hallways to his kitchen. He hears cupboards opening and closing and his intruder making irritated huffs and whatever he is or isn’t finding. Harry doesn’t stop to consider the absurdity of a burglar looking through his kitchen for valuables before he swings around the corner with the statue raised over his head, poised to strike.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” the burglar shrieks when the statue just barely misses his head. “Warn a guy!”

Harry gapes. He lets the burglar pull the statue out of his hand and sit it on the counter.

“Was just looking for a beer,” the other explains. “No need to take my head off.”

“You’re supposed to be in Ireland,” Harry says questioningly.

“I’m supposed to be wherever you are, mate.”

Niall sounds like he’s copying Harry’s imitation of an Irish accent; that’s what tips Harry off to what’s going on. He can’t possibly be looking at his blond friend. He’s just hallucinating again.

“Here to show me some more memories?” the taller man grumbles, already quite sick of the whole experience.

“Nah,” Niall grins. “I’m the Spirit of Christmas Present.”

“It’s Christmas Eve,” counters Harry.

“Just a technicality. Are ya ready?”

The blond extends his hand invitingly, but Harry won’t take it. He decides he’s not going to play along with any more of his brain’s terribly unfunny jokes and stands his ground.

“Don’t be like that, Harry,” _not_ -Niall frowns. “‘m just trying to help.”

“I don’t need any help. Nothing’s wrong.”

“That’s a load of shite and you know it.”

Harry doesn’t budge. Niall rolls his eyes and grabs onto the other man’s arm.

When their surroundings refocus, the two are in Harry’s family’s house. The living room is entirely decorated for the holidays: garlands and fairy lights strung tastefully on the walls and the Christmas tree taking up a corner. Harry’s family are all seated around the room with mugs of hot cocoa and eggnog. They appear relaxed and content, and Harry refuses to be upset that they don’t seem to be missing his presence at all.

“What are you trying to tell me?” Harry sasses, tugging his arm out of the spirit’s grasp. “That I should skip Christmas every year because everyone is fine without me?”

“If your attitude’s like that all the time, it’s no wonder they’re fine without you,” Niall shoots back.

Harry’s eyes widen, his body turning to face the spirit. He hadn’t expected him to fight back; he’d expected a vague statement about what he was supposedly meant to be learning and maybe a gentle admonishment. The glare he’s getting isn’t at all gentle.

“If you’re not going to take this seriously, I can just let you fuck up your life,” the blond continues. “I don’t want to do that, but I can.”

“Why don’t you?”

Niall shrugs. “Everyone deserves love. And I don’t like watching people screw themselves over because they’re too blind to see what they have.”

Harry doesn’t know how to respond. He chooses to turn back and watch his mother and sister gossip about some of Gemma’s old school friends; it seems easier than trying to reply or defend himself. He can’t imagine what he’s apparently being “blind” to, but he doesn’t know how to articulate that.

“Look under the tree,” Niall orders eventually, after they’ve both been staring in awkward silence for a few minutes.

Harry obeys. At first he doesn’t see anything but the floor. Eventually, however, he notices a silver package tucked away in the back. He can’t see the whole thing or read the tag, so he looks over in bewilderment at the spirit.

“Go open it.”

The rules of these hallucinations haven’t been explained to Harry, so when he reaches in to grab the present, he doesn’t entirely expect to be able to move it. It’s picked up easily, though: a box larger than he had thought when he first caught a glimpse of it. The tag reads “To Harry” in his mother’s handwriting. Harry slips a thumb under the edge of the wrapping paper to tear the tape holding it down before he can pull it off the box. The box itself is generic cardboard, so he doesn’t pause to look at it long before he’s pulling off the lid.

Inside, the first thing he sees is the plush fabric of a blanket in the colors of the Irish flag. Harry is confused, understandably, and tugs the first layer out of the way to find a box of Yorkshire tea and a box set of the Toy Story trilogy tucked in the fold of the blanket. He stares for a while, absently running his fingers along the soft fabric of the blanket.

“I don’t understand,” he finally says. “What is this supposed to mean?”

“You didn’t want to come home immediately because you thought they wouldn’t understand why you were so sad,” Niall says softly. “But they _do_ understand, Harry.”

Harry still feels dazed as he lifts the blanket out of the box and wraps it around his shoulders. It’s big enough that it wraps easily around him with a lot of extra room and feels like a hug covering his entire body. Harry buries his nose in the fabric and breathes, half surprised that it doesn’t smell like Niall. He can imagine his mum going to different shops to pick out the absolute most comfortable blanket she could find in this flag pattern, snuggling into each one to test how safe and cozy Harry would feel wrapped in each one. He can imagine what might have happened if he had come home and opened up to her about his fears for the very uncertain future he was looking at: she would have draped the blanket over his body, brewed a cup of the tea that he would let sit on the table but occasionally sniff, and put in one of the movies. She would have surrounded him in the closest things to his friends that she could get short of making them come over to the house, held him close to her chest while he let out the cry he hadn’t allowed himself to have on his own.

The spirit allows him some time to think and properly appreciate his family before reaching over to place a hand on Harry’s shoulder and whisking them away to a new place. The blanket comes with them, a fact Harry is thankful for though he won’t admit it.

They arrive in the center of a party that’s in full swing. Bodies dance around and through the two out-of-place figures; Harry tugs his blanket a bit closer to his body and lets Niall lead him through the crowd. Harry recognizes the faces of some of Louis’ friends from Doncaster and deduces that they must be at the man’s birthday party. He follows the spirit past all of the drunken celebration, up the stairs, and into Louis’ bedroom. Harry briefly winces at the thought that they’re going to walk in on his bandmate shagging some girl, but when they get inside there is no shagging occurring in the room.

“Y’alright, mate?” Harry hears Liam ask as the man sits on Louis’ bed.

“‘m fine,” Niall–the _real_ Niall, or at least as real as a hallucination can be–replies with an obviously fake smile.

“You know I’m not buying that,” Liam points out. He throws an arm around Niall’s shoulders and tugs the blond until he’s laying his head at the base of Liam’s neck. “Is it Harry?”

Harry’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline, and raise minutely upward when Niall nods stiffly. Not-Niall slides his hand from Harry’s shoulder to his back and pats it twice in half-assed reassurance.

“He won’t talk to me, Li,” Niall whispers sadly. “And he didn’t come home for Christmas. I’m worried about him.”

“Harry can take care of himself.” Liam raises a hand in surrender when Niall’s expression makes it clear that he doesn’t believe that in the slightest. “At least physically, he can,” Liam amends. “He’s probably just getting used to having so much free time. Trying to experience some things on his own for a bit. He’ll come around.”

“Harry doesn’t like to be on his own. He gets lonely.”

“He’s got loads of mates in California. I bet he’s throwing some fancy party right now.”

Niall doesn’t look comforted; in fact, he just looks sadder. Liam presses a kiss to the blond’s forehead.

“What if he likes it better, Liam?” Niall seems to shrink into himself once the question slips out of his mouth. “Without us? Without _me_?”

Liam shakes his head and smiles incredulously down at his friend. “You must be mad if you think Harry’s going to go more than a month without calling you about some stupid joke he’s made up. Why don’t you just call him now and tell him about Louis accidentally snogging his cousin?”

“I tried. He didn’t pick up.”

Harry thinks guiltily about his phone at home and all the calls he’s ignored from everyone the past few days. There have been at least twenty from Niall, all of which Harry had seen and not answered out of some sort of determination not to fall back into old patterns. He hated doing it at the time and hates it even more now that he sees how deflated it makes Niall look.

“If you’re angry with him, you should just say so,” the spirit version of Niall offers. “But I know you’re not angry with _him_. Avoidance is kind of childish.”

Harry can’t deny the accusation, but he can correct the implication that it’s only Niall he won’t talk to. “I’m not just avoiding Niall. I’m avoiding everyone.”

“And it’s stupid as hell.”

“What do you want me to do?” Harry retorts. He feels a bit unfairly attacked, his own imagination ganging up on him and his decisions when his brain is the one who came up with them in the first place.

“Talk to them? They’re not just your bandmates; they’re your friends. Brothers, some would say. Even if the hiatus lasts indefinitely, you can still be friends.”

Harry doesn’t know if that’s true for him. He’s not sure he could stand to hang out with the lads knowing that they used to be on the road living their dreams and then suddenly stopped and never picked it back up again. The memories caused by seeing the other three might be too upsetting to be worth seeing them again. Harry might decide that avoiding feeling the hurt would be worth losing the friendship.

“Niall is family,” the spirit insists. “They’re all your family. You can’t just ignore them because you’re scared your best years are behind you already and you don’t want to be reminded of it.”

Harry finds himself walking over to sit on the real Niall’s free side. He sticks his hand out of his blanket and lays it over the blond’s on the bed, fitting his fingers into the spaces between Niall’s. He can feel the other man’s skin underneath his like it was really happening, but it feels wrong, lacking warmth. He knows that if it were real, Niall would flip his hand over and let Harry intertwine their fingers fully without missing a beat in his conversation or losing focus on whatever else he was doing. He leans over and kisses Niall’s shoulder. Right as his lips make contact, he feels a light pressure on his back and the scene disappears, leaving him in his bedroom once again.

He feels cold, bereft of the blanket which obviously didn’t make it out of his crazy dream. The floor under his feet is solid but somehow feels like it might fall away and leave him spiraling into nothingness.

It seems like he’s only been back for a second when a pair of feet in stilettos step into his line of vision. He slowly lifts his eyes, taking in shapely, long legs and a tight, expensive black dress over a thin body. The woman’s face makes him jolt in surprise: it seems to shift as he stares, the features cycling through different forms so quickly that, in effect, she has no defined face. Harry wants to scramble away, but he steels his nerves and stands.

Harry clears his throat awkwardly and focuses his gaze on her forehead, the part of her face that changes the least. “You must be Christmas Future,” he guesses.

She doesn’t answer him. He can’t decide if he’s grateful that he didn’t have to see her ever-shifting lips move or annoyed that he didn’t get a reply. She holds out her hand like the two spirits before her had; Harry takes it gingerly, finding that her grip is equally light and reluctant.

Instead of a white light transitioning their location, Harry is instead blinded by darkness between sceneries. When he can make things out again, at the same time the woman drops his hand like he carries the plague, he finds himself in front of the door to a massive, modern-style mansion. He glances over at his companion to see if she has any instructions, but, seeing none, decides to open the door and walk in.

The entryway is as large as his mother’s living room, with a long white staircase, a clear, glass chandelier, and several archways leading off in different directions. The woman at his side points silently at the archway closest to him on the right. As he has no better options, he heads through that one.

The sitting room he comes to is lifeless, both in the literal and metaphorical senses. All of the furniture is black and angular and looks like no one has ever sat on it. There is only one photo in the entire room. It sits in a simple white frame. Harry has to walk closer to see who it features and is only a bit shocked to see an older version of himself staring back. He’s in a black tuxedo with his arm around the waist of a gorgeous brunette who he’s never seen before, and she’s in a wedding dress. Neither of them are smiling.

Harry doesn’t have to walk through the rest of the house to know it will be just as plain and uncomfortably pristine as this room is. The woman steps up beside him and extends her hand again.

His mother’s kitchen is a welcome sight compared to the place–his house?–he’d just left. His mum looks older than she does in his reality, more wrinkles on her face and a tiredness to her features that he isn’t familiar with. She’s pouring a mug of coffee and handing it to Gemma, who looks older and more tired as well, no longer a young woman and with a toddler on her hip. The child is sleeping on Gemma’s shoulder, so the two women keep their voices down when they begin speaking.

“Have you heard from Harry?” Gemma asks hesitantly after her first sip of coffee.

Harry’s mum frowns as she pours another mug. “No. You know your brother, never has much time anymore.”

“He should make time,” Gemma mutters.

“He and Roslyn are very busy people,” Anne explains, though she sounds insincere. “They can’t drop all of their projects to come visit whenever they want.”

“It’s _Christmas_. That bi–witch,” Gemma corrects herself, “doesn’t have to come. Harry can drive up on his own for dinner and leave right after. He hasn’t been home for Christmas for three years, Mum.”

“Roslyn isn’t a witch.”

Gemma gives Anne a look of disbelief until the older woman sighs and concedes. “Alright, she is, but Harry loves her. I’m just glad he finally settled down. He was practically dating a different girl every week for a while after…well…” Both Anne and Gemma look a bit sad, thinking about whatever event Harry’s mum was referring to. “Anyway, they’ve promised to come for his birthday.”

“I won’t hold my breath.”

Harry doesn’t have time to hear more as the room fades out and he’s taken somewhere else.

It’s a cemetery. The spirit has landed him in a cemetery and Harry’s intensely afraid of who he’s here to see. He doesn’t have to wonder long. An aging Bobby Horan drags his feet past him, looking three decades older than Harry remembers. He can’t look at the grave the man stops at; he won’t. He doesn’t want to read the name and have his terrible suspicions confirmed. Who else could it be? There’s no other option besides the one Harry refuses to accept.

“No,” he says emphatically. “This isn’t real.”

The woman looks ahead and doesn’t answer him.

“Niall isn’t–” Harry’s voice cracks. “He isn’t dead. He couldn’t be.”

The woman pinches his sleeve and he’s thrown into a whirlwind of images: Niall, glaring at his phone which shows a long string of unanswered calls to Harry. Getting in the car. Driving wildly through snowfall and taking a turn nearly twenty kilometers faster than what would be safe in the weather conditions. The car flipping off the road. An ambulance’s flashing lights. The cemetery. An older Harry, downing shots in a bar under the strobe lights and wiping tears angrily off his cheeks. Woman after woman after woman on his arm, kissing him, pulling his shirt off, yelling at him. The brunette from the photograph in the lifeless house, walking down the aisle while Harry gets the distinct feeling of regret.

The images stop; Harry feels dizzy and disoriented and like he’s going to vomit. He sits down heavily, barely even noting that he’s returned to his bedroom. Harry feels around blindly for his phone, knocking it to the floor and dropping it again twice before he manages to unlock the screen.

The phone rings for too long in Harry’s desperate opinion. His hand is shaking so badly he’s afraid he’s going to drop the device again and lose the call. He gets no answer and dials again, and then again when the same result occurs.

“‘llo? ‘arry?” a groggy voice picks up on the second ring the third time he calls.

“Niall,” Harry breathes out in relief.

“You alright, mate?” Niall asks, his concern probably having woken him up more. “Isn’t it…two AM in California?”

“Yes, I’m fine, I just–” Harry pauses and tries to think of what he could possibly say to convey everything that has gone on for him. “I just needed to hear your voice,” is what he settles on.

Niall is quiet for a few moments. “Alright,” he eventually says.

And then he launches into a story about his nephew. A smile spreads across Harry’s face at Niall’s thoughtfulness; despite being tired, he’s willing to talk–and Harry knows from experience that he can and will keep talking for hours if necessary–to help Harry out, distract him from whatever has made him frantically call the blond in the early hours of the morning.

“I love you,” Harry declares in the middle of one of Niall’s sentences.

“I love you too,” Niall replies immediately.

“No, I’m like… _in_ love with you, probably. At least halfway.”

“I love you too,” Niall repeats pointedly. “More than halfway.”

Harry lays back on his bed, phone still pressed to his ear. He wishes he were in England like he was supposed to be days ago, closer in time and space to Niall and just a quick flight away so he could go snog the other man until neither of them could feel their lips enough to smile about it.

“Do you think I could get a flight home if I called around right now?” Harry muses aloud.

“At this hour?” Niall laughs. “Doubt waking people up would make them want to help you out. Get some sleep and try later.”

“I’m going to get home in time to see you before your flight tomorrow morning after the party,” Harry insists. “I promise.”

“I’ll be waiting for you, then.”

They should hang up and both sleep a bit, but before they do, Harry remembers something he heard in his very long, very complex dream.

“Keep Louis from snogging anyone tonight. He won’t like being teased for kissing his cousin.”

“What?” Niall asks, totally confused.

“Just don’t let him snog anyone,” Harry repeats.

Many hours later, when he’s on the plane and using the wifi to check his messages, he gets a text from Niall consisting of no less than ten question marks.

_How did u kno???????????_

Harry’s not sure if he should be amused that Louis actually almost kissed his cousin or scared that his dream might not have been a dream after all.


End file.
